


It's about M.E.

by Rosaroma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chronic Illness, F/M, Medical terminology lurks within, Mycroft loves his brother, Sherlock & John Best Friends, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosaroma/pseuds/Rosaroma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is sick; glandular fever is the culprit. However when recovery is not imminent Sherlock takes things into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's about M.E.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for series 1-3. I do not own Sherlock. I hope you enjoy the ride poor Sherlock is about to go on.

Sherlock coughed and pulled his blue scarf up higher round his shivering neck, he'd been positively freezing for what seemed like days. He slumped into the sofa cushions and reached for John's gun, aiming at the wall.

"No, no, you are not putting any more holes in that wall." John jumped up and reached for the gun, Sherlock held it out of reach.

"Oh fine," Sherlock handed it over, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf.

"Thank you," John sat back down in his chair by the fire and unloaded the cold bullets before placing the empty gun between them. The weather had taken on a windy chill and the extra heat was an absolute Godsend. "I know this is hard to believe, but you are not," John caught Sherlock's eye, "invincible."

"It is becoming apparent," Sherlock said in disgust. "I'm bored." He pulled his mouth free of the insulation.

"Go see what Molly's doing, see if she'll give you some body parts to experiment on." John said reasonably as he sipped his tea and thought fondly of peace and quiet. Sherlock had been ill for three weeks, three weeks of constant input, except when Sherlock was too tired to talk, which was alarming in it self. Today he seemed improved; apart from the sniffling, Sherlock was his usual taciturn self.

"Humph," Sherlock sniffed and threw the idea around in his head until it seemed the only viable option.

Twenty minutes later he was dressed, shirt, coat, and scarf all snug, buttoned, and tied. The buttons were not straight but John wasn't going to point that out.

Sherlock didn't take note of whether John had moved or not, now was the time to be at Bart's.

The taxi ride was mercifully quick, and soon he was taking the stairs two at a time in anticipation of actual distraction. However as he cleared the last step and opened the door to the infirmary, the room began to spin.

"Sherlock?" Molly put down the scalpel she'd been about to use. Why was he out of bed?

"Molly?" Sherlock's voice was confused as he banged into the autopsy table, and nearly toppled the current body onto the floor. Gripping the dead mans clothes and trying to breath through his nose, he felt Molly push a chair up behind him.

"I don't…" he trailed off he really did need it. His hands shook unnecessarily as he relaxed and released the corpse.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Molly said her usual empathy laced with surprise at his state. Lestrade had mentioned in passing that Sherlock was sick with glandular fever in bed, but she hadn't imagined it was this bad. Of course, nothing less would keep Sherlock from cases and the morgue, unless.

"Look at me."  
Molly had a penlight, and she shone it in his eyes causing the sharpest pain he'd ever felt to jag backward through his brain. Clutching his head he tried not to snatch the pen light from her tiny hands, but couldn't stop blinking long enough to see her pull away.

"You're not high," Molly said peering at his scrunched up expression. Sherlock didn't respond. "Are you all right? Sherlock."

"Obviously not," he ground out, the pathology lab was so utterly bright, every surface white and shining. What the hell was his body doing that caused him to be unable to function in such a simple way?

"I really think you should go home." Molly reached for his long pale wrist and pressing her finger to his pulse she counted.

"I was bored, I wanted body parts."

She finished counting; only slightly elevated and that seemed to be from stress. He coughed ungracefully and apologised, words slightly slurred.

"Oh Sherlock," Molly's small smile that he liked best quirked across her mouth. Releasing his wrist she pulled her phone out of her pocket. "I'll call John to come and get you."

"I'm fine."

She glared at him disbelievingly.

"Alright, not fine, but perfectly capable of hailing a taxi and reaching the Brownstone."

"Fine," she echoed his petulance, "and you can take these fingers," she said kindly lifting a bag off the side. "I'm done with them."

Sherlock's eyes would have shone if he hadn't had them narrowed against the strip lighting.

Outside Bart's was equally awful, but soon Sherlock was tucked into the darkness of a London cab, breathing the controlled air and trying to remain upright.

"Baker street," he said tucking the bag of fingers into an inside pocket as they pulled away.

Paying the cabby he stepped outside, and felt for the entire world as though someone had numbed his legs and pickaxed his knees; there was a tranquillised quality to their utter unresponsiveness, Sherlock would know, having been sedated in the past. The cab screeched away.

"What the-" Sherlock fell hard onto the pavement and tried not to shout out, his body gave him no recourse but to go down completely. If Mycroft had anything to do with this, he was going to be furious. Why would Mycroft be slowly poisoning him, and how?

This was much how John found him ten minutes later, Sherlock Holmes reclining on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock? What's happened?"

"Oh John, nothing." Sherlock said trying to brush off his presence as happenstance. He rested one elbow on a poised knee to cover the scuff of having fallen on it; he tried to appear nonchalant, as though he were investigating the street they had lived on for nearly four years. He flicked his eyes purposefully along the opposite row of houses to complete the charade.

John crouched down beside his friend. "Nope, you haven't recovered yet."  
Sherlock's askance gaze was a straightforward yes in John's 'Sherlock dictionary.' "Don't try and deny it. Denial is not a form of treatment when it comes to being sick Sherlock." John raised his eyebrows. "Don't argue with me Sherlock. You have been the worst patient imaginable."

Sherlock dragged his hand through his hair, and huffed as John helped him stand up off the pavement. The ten or fifteen minutes lying down had helped his legs feel marginally more capable of standing; pain still shot up and down every muscle and tendon, as he tried to walk naturally through the front door, he assessed the stairs in a jumbled speed of new sensation and data; it would hurt, but he could do it; for how long would he be unable to reliably walk up stairs? There were so many variables.

Gripping the banister with a white grip Sherlock walked at as fast as a pace as he could, which is to say that of a tortoise named Clyde.

"Don't worry Sherlock, I'm not in a hurry."

Having a doctor for a best friend made pretending rather null and void. His body felt somewhat similar to the time he had been shot; the bleeding out, the shock to all bodily systems, it was absurd.

Making it to his room Sherlock reached for the box under his bed and dragged it onto the quilt. Clicking open the lid he leant against the bed head and rifled through the disorganized contents. There were tests to be done. Sterilizing his arm with one hand, he pulled a packed needle out and placed it in his arm, drawing the blood needed.

"Sherlock, are you taking your own blood samples again?" John called down the hall.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed slightly as he yanked the needle back out again, and applied the necessary pressure for it to begin to heal.

John rolled his eyes and flicked the kettle switch. An inconclusive recovery schedule was exactly the kind of thing to send Sherlock into a researching frenzy.

"If you take enough blood you won't be able to concentrate and run the tests," John said finding Sherlock had already filled three vials. Looking blearily up at John, Sherlock nodded seriously if a little blankly, and pushed the box away as he lay down flat.

The glandular fever had really taken it out of him the past few weeks, so much so that he'd been sleeping twelve to thirteen hours a night, as opposed to his usual five. He had wanted to go on cases, but his body had been weak, even with all the rest. Mary had released John to come look after his best friend. Certain moments made him wish she hadn't, but looking at his poor friend now, John just sighed and tucked the duvet in around him. Removing the box he pulled the door to, he would send the blood samples over to Bart's, Sherlock could ask Molly to run whatever he wanted on them, but he wasn't in the state to be doing it himself.

Waking up some seven hours later, Sherlock scrolled through page after page of medical jargon. His already impressive vocabulary expanded further upon the introduction of the autonomic nervous system, myalgia, and hypovolemia. Of course Sherlock had come across the results of hypovolemic shock hundreds of times in his crime solving and deducing years, but hypovolemia as a condition, this was something else. Rather than the sudden loss of blood that led to death, this was a chronic depletion of blood volume, fascinating, yet serious nonetheless. The effects on cognitive function and the nervous system were perturbing.

John put a cup of tea down next to Sherlock's tapping fingers, and soon it was being sipped and brought over to join him at the fireplace.

"I'm working on some theories, I need you to book me a doctor's appointment." He pressed fingers into the side of his temple, Sherlock wished this migraine would leave him in peace.

"Sherlock, are you asking me to book you an appointment with a doctor, or with me?"

Silence enveloped them as Sherlock just stared unblinkingly over the rim of his teacup.

John shook his head, "I know I'm a doctor but," Sherlock still hadn't blinked. "Okay, I'll book you in, but I'm telling you now we are booked pretty solid for the next few weeks."

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed and thought of the changes to his living arrangement. Sharing this flat meant having someone to bounce his ideas off. The last few weeks had not been the ideal situation he remembered, markedly because he spent most of the time too sick to engage another in conversation. Having a best friend seemed to take two, and he missed it.

Sherlock woke some hours later as his back arched involuntarily; he clenched his jaw against the roiling pain, it was everywhere. This was bad. He tried to think of anything to do to distract himself, but all available possibilities were out of reach, his mind palace seemed to have locked its doors. Taking a wheeling grunt at moving he flung himself off the bed and onto the floor.

His entire torso was on fire and no matter how calm and even his breaths were, his heart raced. Face down on the carpet he smelled the slight scent of iodine, when was the last time he had spilled iodine? Another jolt of agonising hot, shot through his stomach and up into his throat. Forcing himself onto all fours he managed to reach the living room but didn't spot John; where was he? Right, Mary. John had probably gone home to see Mary. Spotting his phone on the table he reached up and grabbed it.

\- Molly, I need you.

\- What is it Sherlock? I'm working.

Sherlock's fingers shook now and he cursed as he tried to straighten his thumb and then his forefinger.

\- Reduced motor function, no hurry.

Just under an hour later Molly knocked on the front door. Groaning Sherlock clicked call on the phone that lay expectantly beside his head. It rang momentarily.

"Hello, Sherlock?"

"I have reduced motor function, was it at all likely that I was going to answer the door?" Silence. "Come on up." He rolled his eyes even though his lids were shut.

"Okay." Molly let herself in and shut the door firmly to keep the snow out that had started to fall. The brownstone was lovely and warm; John must have made sure to turn the heating up. She scampered up the stairs and unwound her scarf as she moved, nearly tripping over Sherlock's arm as she found him lying in the door to the entry way.

Molly gazed down at the brilliant and slightly dazed consultant detective, in the dim lighting from the slightly drawn curtains. His sleepy face was completely unbarred, and open. There were creases moving with the pain he was experiencing, and a pallor that probably needed attending to.

Dropping her bags she asked if he could get up.

"I'm not sure." It irked him to say those three words, but the lack of assured facts where his body was concerned made it so.

"We should really get you in bed or at least to the sofa."

Reaching down she put her arms around his waist and pulled, this resulted in Sherlock's head falling over her shoulder. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Why?" his breath tickled underneath her ponytail; he was probably unaware of the effect he had.

"We don't shake hands Sherlock, let alone hug." Molly said in her crouched position within his slumped torso.

"I promise to shake hands with you, the next time I see you." Sherlock took note of the cognitive dysfunction, in the markedly un-him statement that had just fallen out of his mouth.

Leaning back and straightening her legs Molly managed to heave him to standing, just; then he stumbled forward and she was pushed back against the wall. Sherlock gasped as he tried to get a hold of his uncooperative limbs, and braced himself either side of her.

"My apologies, you know I would never act like this, especially around you." He winced at his choice of words when he saw the pain it caused her.

Molly felt her feelings climb into her throat. "No. Of course not, I'm not the kind of person you would voluntarily lean on for support." He was ill and she had been so glad to hear from, to know he would go to her for help.

"Not what I meant," Sherlock said looking down at those glistening shadowed eyes between his chest and the wall.

"You know I would lean on you Molly Hooper, I have been doing so for a long time now." He let slight emotion lose in his tone, and knew she read him well enough to hear every decibel of it.

Snapping out of the trance his eyes were putting her into, Molly remembered why she was here. Getting him to share his weight, she helped him to the sofa and brought over her medical bag.

"Glandular fever," she mused holding a pressure cuff up, he rolled his shirtsleeve out of the way. "Seems like a complication, though not one I've ever heard of. The fever itself…"  
"Would be unlikely to cause such an extreme reaction." Sherlock said leaning back in exhaustion and watching her measure his blood pressure. He had come to that conclusion about twelve hours prior to this embarrassing moment.

She removed the cuff and stowed it back in her bag. "John dropped some samples off, what do you want me to run checks for?" She was a doctor, of course. With years and years of training, but she didn't work in this field of medicine anymore, and Sherlock would undoubtedly have his own plans.

"Reduced motor function, ongoing fever, unexplained pain; test for infections, obviously," he said it as an aside, and Molly nodded amicably, "any hormone imbalance, any metabolic issues. I want to be a hundred percent well, and the sooner the better, I have work to do."

His frustration was clear and bubbling. Molly placed a small hand on his bare forearm. "It's probably nothing. Everyone gets sick sometimes, could be a really bad bout of the flu. You'll get better."

Sherlock sighed as she stood up and went to put the kettle on. Argh, to be able to run off and annoy Lestrade, or chase a murderer across roof tops. He grabbed his phone and did the next best thing. Scrolling to Lestrade's name he tapped out as best he could his demands.

\- Baker Street. Tomorrow, 9AM sharp. Bring me a case.

Molly came back with a hot cup of water to which Sherlock raised one dark brow in question.

"I don't think stimulants are going to help right now, you need to let your body recuperate." She placed it on the table.

"Usually I would argue," he said wrapping his hand loosely round the warm cup, but anything to get rid of this feeling of incapability.

"Hold you arm out," Molly said kneeling in front of the sofa.

Sherlock grimaced but did as she said as he enjoyed the warmth of the mug beneath his chilled hands. She pressed her palm up against his larger one, and then turned it upward, and pressed down.

"Okay, hold my hand."

He looked at her strangely but slipped his fingers into hers.

"To test your grip Sherlock."

Soon his large hand was trying to grip onto her small one and keep hold. Her fingers slipped out of his easily and Sherlock blinked, irritated by the result. Molly frowned but didn't comment, jotting down some notes for his actual doctor.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear, any guesses what is wrong Sherlock?  
> I am going with Molly being a Pathologist. She would have to have trained as a doctor before she could qualify for this position so she can examine Sherlock fairly knowledgeably.


End file.
